


wedding day blues

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Dancing, Drunkenness, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hangover, Hotel Sex, Male-Female Friendship, Older Man/Younger Woman, Semi-Public Sex, Skoulson RomFest 2k15 REDUX, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Weddings, Woman on Top, skoulsonfest2k15redux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:29:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4426628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His best friend is getting married. For the second time. It's a bit offensive, because Coulson hasn't had a date in three years.</p><p>Written for the Skoulson RomFest 2k15 Redux: Prompt: PDA</p>
            </blockquote>





	wedding day blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hamsterfactor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamsterfactor/gifts).



They don't elope this time.

They talk about it. Consider it seriously, even. How funny it would be, to do it again. How they'd be known as the couple who eloped twice. But Andrew, sensible as always and knowing her better than she knows herself sometimes, can tell May would probably regret it.

"And your mom would kill us both if we don't invite her this time," he tells her, and she looks like she concedes that's a very good point indeed.

"Nice but not gaudy," Andrew warns. He knows Melinda favors gaudy, but this is his wedding as well, he has dreams, fantasies about it. They couldn't be executed the first time, so he's decided to make it count. At least until the next wedding.

So, no gaudiness.

No running away either, that's the important part.

This time: friends and flowers and hotel rooms for everybody.

Hoping that the world can bracket its chaos and destruction for one weekend.

 

+

 

_Your best friend is getting married for a second time._

_With the same guy._

_You haven't had a date in three years. It's a bit offensive, if you think about it. You're good-hearted but everything has a limit._

_For the first time in a long time you do stop to think about it and it's not only offensive it's sad. It's something that can't be fixed._

_You'll never have this, you think, as you walk into the hotel back garden, evening lights spread against the thinning sky, you're early like always, looking for your name among the first row witnesses under the pink canvas._

_You were happy for May when she told you but that's when it hit you, it hit you cold, when she told you, it hit you that you were never going to have this. Not the flowers, not the money considerations, not the gifts, not the dress fittings, not the gold rings, not the seating arrangements, not the "band or dj?" conversations nor the person who would say "dj" when you would say "band". Not the going home with the same someone you would like to go home_ to, _fingers laced at the end of the day. That's what stings, not the flowers or the tasting menus or the weather predictions or a pale blue dress. It's the "someone" that throws you off, how you don't even fantasize. Losing hope, like losing a limb, is a matter of scarring. You're not such sturdy material that knowing you'll never have this –flowers, drinks, a cake, a dance– doesn't sting._

 

+

 

It's a beautiful wedding, Coulson has to admit that.

Begrudgingly, maybe, but he'll have to trust the champagne and his genuine affection for both bride and groom to dull the edge.

A beautiful autumn afternoon, like a wish or a childhood dream. A bit overblown at the edges but May would like that. He doesn't want to be mean, they're all old friends here, he likes May's tackiness, it's endearing to him.

After a sweet and short ceremony the dinner and party is a casual affair. 

Coulson prepares his face to meet the team's faces.

There's a bit of awakwardness, he can see, when a lot of people who are only used to seeing each other in a professional capacity and in life-or-death situations suddenly find themselves interacting in a purely social way, and in a relaxed atmosphere. That's why SHIELD never throws Christmas parties, Fury always said it made people uncomfortable. Coulson doesn't quite agree, he's happy to see his team loosening up a bit, away from danger, and enjoying each other's company. They are already personally involved, anyway – a bit too much, if you ask Coulson, a bit too incestuous.

Everybody takes the chance to catch up with Hunter, who hasn't been around for a while, too busy working for Talbot ("no one told me how difficult it was to work as a spy when your boss knows you're a spy" he comments. "Liason, you're a liason," Bobbi corrects him. "That word sounds like I should be getting a bigger paycheck." Some things never change, Coulson thinks, afflicted by wedding day sentimetalism right off the bat).

"Mingle," May _orders_ everybody. Everyone heeds the instruction like they would if on a mission and May had just told them to storm the south-west corner of a building.

Coulson walks across the gorgeous hotel garden, prettily made up with tents and chairs and tables and an improvised dance floor for when the moment comes. He greets some people, Andrew's family and friends, mostly, Coulson vaguely remembers a couple of faces from social events, way back in a different life. A literally different life.

He's mostly drifting right now, not really committing to a conversation with anyone, when Skye finds him, touching the back of his jacket and making him turn around. She's wearing a summer dress, yellow, it makes her look golden somehow, Coulson taken aback for a moment, like she's some sort of apparition. He can't admit it but he's been looking forward to talk to her the whole day.

He saw Skye yesterday in the base, but she has been absent all week before that, gone on one of her secret Caterpillars trips. 

"Fancy meeting you here," she says, sunnily.

Coulson is eager to reply in kind, having missed her.

She has spent most of the ceremony fidgeting with the strap on her shoe, uncomfortable, he noticed that. She's still doing that, balancing herself on the uneven grass, touching her fingers to her ankle for a moment.

"That's what you get for buying designer shoes off eBay," she explains, catching his curious glance.

"Designer?" Coulson asks, skeptical.

" _Ish_ ," she admits. "Don't rat me out."

"Your secret's safe with me," he promises, in a tone that, were he talking to someone other than Skye, would sound flirty.

The thought makes him look at her as if she were someone else for a moment. In her field uniform it's easy to forget she's just a young woman sometimes. This is what her life should be about: friends, memorable events. The short yellow dress. She would be beautiful. If she were someone else. But she's Skye and weddings are dangerous things.

Skye looks up and over Coulson's head, at the impressive hotel façade.

"Really nice of May to pay for everybody's rooms for the night," she comments.

"Andrew makes good money."

Skye nods, thoughtfully. "May is a very wise woman."

Coulson chuckles and she joins him, surprised by her own joke.

"Seriously," she says, laughing. "You have to lock those down."

"You're a such romantic," Coulson tells her, aware this might be the most personal conversation they've had on the subject, and it's a joke.

"Can't really afford to," she replies, weirdly honest, betrayed by her own bitterness for a moment, then she looks around, putting on a more usual smile. "But this is really romantic."

"Weddings are supposed to be," Coulson says.

Skye shrugs. "I wouldn't know. This is my first time attending one."

"Really? First wedding?"

It shouldn't surprise him. It makes sense.

"Am I doing okay?" she asks, and he can hear that tinge in her voice that means the question might be honestly asked.

He looks at her yellow dress. He looks at her hair, too well-made for what he's accostumed. 

He looks at her.

"You're doing great," he tells her.

He squeezes her arm, Skye's eyes following the gesture like it's so strange. It's a bit strange.

The party starts and Skye is diligently called by the others, who haven't seen her all week either. Friends and colleagues beckon and Skye grabs as glass of champagne from the waiter passing by (hands so smooth and quick the man might not have noticed at all and Coulson remembers the girl from the van) and throws one last apologetic look at Coulson as Simmons leads her by the hand to the other side of the garden, towards the group.

He finds a chair nearby and sinks into it, looking on at the wedding scene without being part of it right now. An observer.

People start to dance, after the bride and the groom finish their first. 

It's a big sized party and people keep missing each other – Coulson watches as Bobbi makes her way through dancing couples whispering "Hunter, _Hunter_ " between guests in an exasperated voice. It's kind of funny.

He's not sure how long he spends looking on like this, wondering what kind of wedding this would have been fifteen years ago, if May and Andrew hadn't eloped. If they had made him the courtesy of inviting him – he did introduce them, after all, sort of, Coulson knew Andrew before Andrew ever met May and if Coulson's superiors hadn't sent him to consult a professional back then the twice-married couple would have never met. But that's ancient history. Some people wouldn't like the idea of life being so random – if a mission hadn't gone wrong, if Andrew hadn't been the only therapist available for SHIELD agents then, if May had never been assigned to Coulson's team in Ops. Coulson likes it, though, the idea that something as important as meeting the love of your life can rest on such a fragile basis. He's getting sentimental –again, fuck– and worse, he's getting philosophical, envious, tragic.

After a while – there's a lull in the merry dancing and everybody seems to take a breath – Andrew comes by with a piece of the cake.

Coulson prodes at the not-moist-enough sponge. Pettily. There's definitely some petty proding going on.

"You should have let me help pick the menu," he says.

Andrew gives him a look full of pity and amusement, but also slight impatience.

"I didn't know your family was so big," Coulson adds, more amicably this time.

"I'm not in touch with most of them but get married and all your second cousins and third cousins are suddenly willing to cross the country for free cake."

"Not even good free cake," Coulson mutters.

"You know how these things are," Andrew adds, ignoring his gastronomical quip.

"Not really, no," Coulson says. Andrew gives him a questioning look. "My line of work, I don't know that many people who get married, present company excluded. I did go to a wedding once – I was fifteen and my mom's best friend got married. We had to drive to Michigan, it was fun."

He remembers he danced with his mom in that wedding. Sad. But Andrew probably doesn't want to hear about that. He's not on the clock to deal with such issues.

Andrew changes the subject, probably thinking the same thing.

"Skye keeps looking this way. I think she wants a dance with the Director of SHIELD."

"What is this? High school?" Coulson says.

He has noticed, of course. She had thrown a not subtle but definitely disappointed raised-eyebrow when everybody in the team started to dance and he kept to his sorry chair. She's still looking from time to time. It's obvious she wants to dance with Coulson.

"I think you should probably dance with her," Andrew says.

Coulson turns to him.

"Your professional opinion?"

"If you want."

He looks away. His body stiffens for a moment. Sometimes he almost forgets – the prosthetic has helped a lot, of course – but sometimes he really doesn't.

"I don't feel like dancing," he says.

"Something you want to tell your therapist, Director?"

"Are you my shrink right now?"

" _Your host_."

Coulson nods. "Then I'll try to be a good guest."

"Then dance," Andrew tells him, admonishing like a stern but kind father, and walks away.

 

+

 

_A beautiful girl asks you to dance._

_She's wearing a short yellow dress._

_You know her, but not today._

_Today she's a stranger going up against your hundred indecisions._

_You used to love weddings. The idea of them. Always wished you'd been invited to more. But in your line of work... friends, colleagues, they don't normally get something like this. This is an anomaly. Something impossible._

 

+

 

Some slow version of The Cure's "Just Like Heaven". Because May loves corny songs. Not many people know about this. Coulson remembers roadtrips where she got to pick the music – hours filled of 80s rock ballads, "I want to know what love is", "Love bites," that sort of thing. When Coulson came to her door right before exams day he could hear her blasting Cinderella records through the walls.

That feels like yesterday, and a lot longer at the same time.

He slips his hand around Skye's back, clumsily, because he's having some uncomfortable flashback to the first weeks of using his prosthetic hand, when he was afraid of grabbing people too hard. But he's suddenly distracted by Skye's fingers curling around his shoulder and the way she lifts her left hand so he can hold it in his, so eagerly. He tries not to hesitate – it's a wedding, you're supposed to dance with your friends, Skye's his friend. His friend whose fingers fit easily entwined with his. Outside situations of danger or extreme emotional stress Coulson doesn't think they've ever held hands.

"I thought I was going to have to _drag_ you the dance floor," she says.

He mutters a noncommital noise, it could an apology or an explanation, he's not sure. Making her wait, then listening to Andrew's advice... it doesn't feel very professional or corteous of him.

"I have it on good authority you excel at dancing," she goes on.

"Good authority?"

"I read your file. Remember?" She tilts her head. "And May told me about the lessons at the Academy."

"That was a long time ago," he reminds her.

"I'm sure you still have some moves."

He feels self-conscious but he knows Skye is not expecting any " _moves_ ".

"We didn't get a chance to talk yesterday," he says. As soon as Skye came back to the base she had been neck deep in wedding business, quietly nervous. "About the mission."

"That? Oh it's fine," she says, looking a bit wrong-footed that the conversation has turned to the professional immediately. Coulson has her in his arms. "Some routine check-up. The girl had Inhuman family, they had already helped her with the transition."

"Well, that's good."

In the last past year they had seen an alarming number of people lost and confused about their own tranformations, and Skye has had her work cut out for her.

"This is not weird, is it?" she asks.

He wouldn't know what she means except for the way she pulls her body apart from his in that moment, and Coulson hadn't realized they had been dancing so close. He still feels stiff. But he's not about to hurt Skye's feelings by telling her he's uncomfortable like this.

He shakes his head. 

It's Skye who relaxes, and he can feel it all over him.

"So," Skye starts. " _Weddings_. Ever wanted one of these for yourself? Or is that too much of a personal question and you are my boss and you need to compartimentalize."

"We're off the clock," he says, rather lamely. "As for being your boss... I think you've proved you're pretty independent, recently."

"I'm sorry, I didn't –"

Coulson smiles warmly at her.

"It wasn't a criticism," he tells her. "We went over this. You're making your own calls. You don't need anyone to hold your hand anymore."

"Well, I'm dancing, so I kind of need you to hold my hand right now."

Coulson chuckles. Without meaning to he squeezes Skye's left hand in agreement.

They dance a bit – the slow song makes it simustaneously easy to move and more uncomfortable – then Coulson remembers her question.

"Yes, I wanted one of these," he tells Skye. "Ever since I was a kid."

She looks surprised (and maybe a bit impressed, she's doing that thing where she curls just one corner of her mouth and slightly raises one eyebrow).

" _A kid_? That's weird. Boys don't want weddings."

"I did," he says. A very precise memory flashes through his mind – something he hadn't thought about in years. He smiles to himself and Skye catches him, waiting for Coulson to explain. "I used to look at my parent's wedding album all the time, spent hours staring at those pictures."

"Cute."

He remembers those pictures perfectly, they were a bit different from wedding day images you'd see hanging from the walls of a photographer's studio. He decides to tell Skye, because she'll probably like the story.

"Well, my mom was six months pregnant with me when they got married so there's that," he comments, enjoying the way that truly catches her by surprise.

"Really? What a scandal."

He heard the story so many times, his parents were so candid and unapologetic about it. They thought it was romantic. And Coulson like the idea of having been to their wedding, in some capacity.

He has no idea why he wants to disclose his whole family history to Skye, today of all days.

"In a small town like theirs? Very much so," he explains. "Even more than when my father, a good catholic kid, announced he was marrying some Jewish spinster ten years his senior."

"Wow, I did not imagine your family was so interesting," Skye tells him.

"Yeah."

He's about to say that it's not as interesting as hers, but that is a low blow.

The song changes but Skye doesn't seem like she's going to let go just yet.

"So how was this ideal wedding like? When you were young?" she asks.

Again, he hasn't thought about that in years. Not even when he was with Audrey – he knew it wasn't realistic to expect things to progress that far, no matter how compatible they were, how good the relationship felt. And that's important, realism. He's not a kid daydreaming in his parents' living room. He knows what his chances are.

"Something simple. Close family, mostly my mom, and friends, I was going to have a small but loyal group of friends when I grew up. County hall, no religious stuff – I was a rebel, after all."

"Of course" she laughs. "Everything about you screams rebel."

"Careful," he teases her. "You might have autonomy but I still pay your wage."

"Sorry, sorry, go on."

Okay, he's having fun. Being with Skye is always fun. Talking to Skye.

And she seems to be genuinely interested in hearing about this. They don't talk personal stuff, it makes sense, it's something novel.

"She would wear a blue dress. The money would be spent in really good catering."

"How predictable. A _blue_ dress, uh?"

"I don't know why blue. Just... something I got stuck on when I was a teenager."

Probably because blue was his first girlfriend's favorite color. The first person Coulson ever wanted to marry.

He doesn't know why he is telling Skye this. The champagne maybe. The fact that this is Skye – though it could serve as more cause for restraint.

"Does it have to be blue, though?" Skye asks. "Can't the girl choose?"

Coulson tries to go back to their usual lightness. If their flirting is a little edgier than usual, he blames the setting.

"Well, I guess if I found the right person, I could make an exception..." he jokes. "No, actually, _it has_ to be blue."

Skye laughs an actual belly-laugh. Her whole body vibrates against Coulson's. He wonders if that's how she feels the world around her, thanks to her powers, everything vibrating against her skin. He would love to know how she feels the world.

"Mind if I cut in?" Andrew says, gesturing towards May. "I think it's the bride's choice this time."

Coulson guesses once the box is open... And he's not going to refuse the bride, anyway. He hasn't properly congratulated May, in all seriousness, this could be his chance. Still he looks at Skye for permission.

She nods, letting herself be led away from Coulson – hand slipping slowly from his hand like an omen and how many times has he let her go already, and how many catastrophes has he invoked by letting her go like this. He reminds himself that this is a happy occassion and no one is in danger, and he is not condemning Skye to some future suffering by letting go off her hand this time.

The partner exchange goes smoothly now.

"I'll take care of Skye," Andrew says, drunker than before but still very dignified.

He nods and Skye slips easily from his arms and into Andrew's.

When Coulson looks up May is in front of him already and he smiles at the bride and forgets about the fleeting uneasy feeling and the lingering sensation of being bereft as his hand is left empty for a moment.

Skye and Andrew disappear into the crowd, giving the two friends some long-time coming privacy.

Digging up all those childhood dreams about marriage and family (though that part he skipped when talking to Skye) hasn't done much to appease his jealousy towards May right now.

"Nice dress," Coulson says.

May narrows her eyes at him in an all too familiar way. "Don't even start."

Welcoming her in his arms is a bit of a shock; used to seeing her in the field, putting the fear of god into men twice her size, he forgets just how small and light she really is. Coulson is not a big man but he feels a bit too aware of his body right now. But that onle last a second. Dancing with Skye has made him feel a little less self-conscious, has loosened him up.

"Nice vows, too," he comments, a kinder tone.

"We printed them off the internet," May admits. "We got drunk on wine and picked whatever sounded most ridiculous."

"That sounds like you and Andrew." He shakes his head. "No respect for the process."

"You have _too much_ respect," May replies.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

May gives him a cocky grin.

"Nothing."

 _Right_.

He thinks that this is distinctly different circumstances from the last time they danced. Drastically different. Life had felt short then, and May a harsh companion. Things have changed; May seems soft and radiant, and Coulson is no longer dying, now left wondering if he should do something with that.

"You know, we wouldn't be here if it weren't for me," Coulson points out.

May throws her head back, giving him a skeptical glance.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I introduced you two," he reminds her.

"No, you didn't."

"Well, if you hadn't come picked me up for the Halifax mission at his office those years ago..."

"We would have met somewhere else," May argues. Maybe she does believe in fate and she does believe she and Andrew would have found their way to each other even without Coulson.

"I still like to think I played a part in all this," he replies.

She scoffs at Coulson's egotism.

Coulson brushes his thumb along her wrist encouragingly. He smiles.

"I'm really happy for you," he tells May all of the sudden.

"You _look_ happy."

Coulson drops his gaze.

"I'm sorry."

May shrugs. Apparently nothing can damper her spirits today, which is something novel.

"It's okay," she says and she sounds kind. "Weddings are what they are. That's why we wanted to elope."

"Again?"

"Again."

"You would have broken my heart," Coulson jokes. Though she would have broken his heart. He wanted to see her like this.

"That's what Andrew said."

"I'm still disappointed you didn't let me walk you down the aisle."

"Well, my stepfather wanted to do that. And with him being family I figured I had to indulge him..."

"You're drunk," Coulson points out.

May tilts her head. "A little bit."

Coulson smiles again.

He had wanted to see her like this. Happy. Loved. He had wanted this for her since he met her all those years ago. And for one moment he's not jealous, he's not thinking about how he'll never have what she and Andrew have. For a moment he's just happy for her, wholeheartedly, no envy, nothing.

"May I?" Andrew asks, unable to stand more than one song away from his ex-ex-wife. Who can blame him. Coulson looks around, Skye is nowhere to be seen.

"By all means," he says, letting go of May.

She lands into Andrew's arms smoothly, not missing a beat.

They look perfect together.

They always did.

 

+

 

When he tried to kiss her for a second first time that night in the Director's office May pulled back and gave him a look.

 _"What about the photograph on your desk?"_ she has asked. It had felt foolish, too revealing.

She had always felt this way around Andrew, ever since she met him – raw, exposed, like her skin was suddenly too thin.

 _"Melinda,"_ he had said. That tone. _"You're the smartest woman I know. But you can be really obtuse sometimes."_

May thought about it. There was something – something like a word stuck on the tip of your tongue which won't go further – something she has been missing, _overlooking_ , for months.

 _"The picture on your desk,"_ she said. _"It's me."_

Andrew nodded slowly, magnanimous, and kissed her.

That night in Coulson's office months ago seem as far away as their first wedding. Every step seems to cover lifetimes now. A lot of bad memories between them, but that also seems to be part of why it works.

"I still think it would have been funnier if we had eloped," May is saying now, leaning back against Drew's big and comfrting hand on her back, as they move to the music.

"Next time," he says.

" _Next_ time," May laughs, and kisses her second first husband.

 

+

 

Coulson walks out to the back garden.

His team has gathered in a semi-circle of white steel chairs, the aftermath, the happy time of loosened ties and untied hair, of graduating from champagne to more serious stuff. The lights are up, tiny blue bulbs across the garden. They're pretty. Coulson might be a bit drunk.

He hasn't really stopped drinking since the dancing. He even drank a couple of those pink champagne cocktails he didn't know May liked. There was more dancing after Skye and May, like some sort of Pandora's Box. There was Bobbi – gloriously too tall for him – and May's mother – that had been very odd. Then a quiet moment in the hotel bar, among strangers, listening to Andrew's cousins catch up with each other, Andrew's youngest cousin is a dentist now, she graduated last month, Coulson enjoyed that kind of chatter behind him, people with actual lives – of which May is one of them now. Uh.

"I saved you a spot," Hunter says promptly when he sees him. "And a drink."

"Thanks."

He takes the seat next to Hunter, right besides Bobbi who has her legs comfortably sprawled across Mack's knees. In front of him are Simmons and Fitz. Defying all expectations Fitz doesn't look that bad in a tux, Coulson has to say. He looks quite handsome.

The bride and groom have graduated to some slow and unselfconscious PDA on the dance floor.

"Aw, it's nice seeing Agent May like this," Simmons says.

"Very alarming," Fitz mutters loud enough for everybody to hear and smile about.

"How was your wedding?" Simmons asks, looking at Bobbi, then Hunter.

The two exchange a look. Coulson has gathered more than directly-heard that they are in an _off_ phase of their on-and-off relationship. That might change at any moment but at least they seem to be getting along fine these days.

"Dramatic, that's how it was," Hunter replies, giving Simmons a kind non-committal smile. "Violent."

" _Long_ ," Mack adds.

"Yeah, what was up with that?" Hunter wonders.

"The priest went back a page without noticing," Bobbi explains. "Nobody corrected him."

Coulson thinks it must have been a fun wedding to attend. He knew Bobbi years before she got married, but they had never been close, and he didn't know she had gotten married until months later when Hartley let it slip thinking he already knew. He had been a bit hurt, that Bobbi herself hadn't told him.

"Good scotch," Hunter tells him in low, aside voice.

Coulson undoes his tie and pulls it away, finally shoving it carefully inside the pocket of his jacket.

"Andrew's family is well off."

"So is Agent May's," Bobbi chips in and everybody else gets wind of that.

"Agent May's mum makes me nervous," Fitz comments. Looks around, surprised by his own words. "Anyone else?"

"She's ex-CIA," Coulson explains. "She's supposed to make you nervous."

"CIA?!" FitzSimmons repeat.

Bobbi knew that. Hunter and Mack didn't but they seem delighted with the new information. And yes Coulson remembers that Mrs May used to scare the living daylights out of him when he first met her, when he had been young, and impressed by the woman's reputation.

Coulson looks at the group, feeling blessed because they are his team, and a bit jealous with something he can't name.

"Where's Skye?" he asks, suddenly noticing her absence from the inner sanctum and wondering why he hasn't noticed before.

"I saw her in the garden, by the those tall bushes," Mack replies, a bit unsure.

"Hey, is it just me or is she acting really strange today?" Hunter puts to the floor.

Coulson frowns. What does that mean? 

"You mean strang _er_ than usual," Fitz corrects.

"Weddings, man," Mack sighs in a knowing way. "They have a way of messing you up."

Hunter leans to the edge of his chair, towards Mack. "Remember when you got invited to _your ex_ 's wedding?"

"Oh yeah."

"That was weird."

"It wasn't."

"Definitely weird," Bobbi offers, breaking the tie, and the three of them, Mack, Hunter and her, go off to their little private universe of shared stories, shared scars.

The rest watch them with the irritated benevolence of people with less interesting stories, less complicated bonds. A bit of envy there. Coulson remembers what it was like – being part of that group. He used to have stories too.

"You okay, sir?" Simmons asks him.

He doesn't feel okay. He doesn't like being called "sir" today. When did that happened? One day he was with May, fresh out of the Academy, and now he's "sir". He doesn't like Simmons' tone of voice, well-meaning like one would used to an older relative. Is he old? Is he fragile? He feels shaky from the alcohol but he doesn't feel fragile.

"I'm fine," he says.

He gets up, trying to cover the fact that he's obviously going to go look for Skye for some reason. Covering that fact from himself. No one asks him anyway, and a paranoid part of him wonders if they know.

His footing is stable, he's grateful, he wouldn't want to seem drunk in front of his subordinates. They're not his subordinates tonight, he didn't like the "sir", right, and they have seen him in far worse conditions anyway.

The hotel garden is a complicated, modern affair. Bushes circling trees circling bushes. Trees and bushes, the words stuck to his tongue like some magic charm. Coulson keeps to the edges – the last thing he needs is a maze. It's only when he turns a corner that he stumbles upon Skye, sheltered from view by both bushes and trees. The yellow of the dress among all that green. She's leaning against one of the stone columns, looking out at the distant dance scene. When Coulson reaches her he notices the vantage point: she can see the whole comings and goings of the guests without being seen. 

She smiles, welcoming, when she notices him approaching, but she looks surprisingly tired. He thinks about Hunter's words. Has she really been acting strange?

"Hiding?" he asks.

"A bit."

He gives her a quizzical look. The world is a bit unstable. He shouldn't have drunk so much.

He notices she has finally given up on the shoes and they rest quietly against the wall.

Skye lifts her fingers, a gesture like she's trying to draw what's in front of her. Maybe she has drunk too much as well.

"They view is really nice from here," she says. "Everybody looks happy... and blurry."

Coulson feels like there's something he's missing here. Skye's strange behavior? But _what does that mean_? Does he dare ask?

"You all right?"

"Yeah, it's just –" she starts. "Maybe I've never been to a wedding before but I know this happens. Some people get, you know, a bit sad."

"Are you sad, Skye?"

"I'm... kind of alone," she replies.

He guesses that's true. 

He just never thought that's something which might bother someone like Skye.

"How do you do it?" she asks suddenly.

"Me?"

"You always seemed to be okay with being on your own. I admired that in you."

"Me? That's you, that's – what _I_ admired."

"Me? No way. I'm always longing for some human touch."

"I could touch you."

Skye smiles. "How much have you drunk?"

"A lot?"

" _A lot_ sounds about right."

She laughs, a sound that fills the air, the whole planet, like precious stones falling on clear water, and yes he has drunk a lot but that's how it always sounds to him, every time Skye laughs.

Then her gaze gets cloudy again, like in a dream, looking into the distance. It looks like she considers that distance – couples dancing so late to slow love songs – unnatainable, or maybe Coulson is projecting, wanting to feel like Skye understands this too. She understands everything else, why not.

Coulson leans against the column as well, so close to Skye that she lifts her gaze and looks around, because surely they must look suspicious. He hadn't thought about that, and then realizes the trees and bushes protect them from the eyes of the rest of their group, the rest of the guests. Maybe the trees and bushes are trapping them too.

"You can leave if you want," Coulson says, because he doesn't want her to feel trapped.

He's being inappropriate. She should leave.

Skye shakes her head. She relaxes a bit around Coulson's closeness, her back slidding down the column slightly, her hips propped forward.

He wonders if he dares.

He touches her arm gently, sliding his fingers along the outside of her elbow. Skye trembles a moment, but she doesn't say anything yet.

He brings his mouth close to her cheek, like he is going to kiss her, but he doesn't.

He drops his gaze.

"What?" she asks. And it could mean anything, really.

"I don't want you to feel alone," he says, breathing hotly on her neck.

"I'm – I'm not sure that's up to you."

"Maybe it is," he replies, touching his thumb against the curve of her thigh, right where the short summer dress stops.

"Coulson, what are you doing?"

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No? But I'm not sure what I want matters."

"Well, it matters to me," he says and he's way too drunk but that doesn't mean it's not true.

His hand slides higher up her thigh.

She doesn't ask him to stop and when he touches the fabric of her underwear she draws in a breath but she doesn't ask him to stop. Why doesn't she? _Come on, Skye, ask me to stop_ , he knows this will ruin everything.

He can feel Skye hot and wet under his fingertips.

"Coulson..." she mutters, shutting her eyes closed for a moment.

She throws her head back and parts her legs ever so slightly, like she's trying to give him better access. He has to remind himself they are sheltered by bushes and trees to avoid panicking about being exposed. Although he realizes he doesn't care that much; he would love to get her off right here, right now. He would love to grabs her hips and lift her off the ground and fuck her against the column. He knows he shouldn't think that way about Skye, his Skye. He moves his fingers carefully, not quite believing this is happening, when he already has two of them inside. She makes an ungodly sound.

_do i dare do i dare do i dare_

He presses his lips quietly against the side of her neck – which somehow feels a lot more dangerous and crossing a line than fingering her in public. Skye lets out a tiny sigh and he can feel her whole body give up some kind of fight, but losing it, pulling away from his touch.

"Coulson," she says, taking his hand in hers, stopping him. "You're drunk and I'm not a completely horrible person."

He takes his hand off her immediately but he doesn't understand that last part.

"What?"

He lets himself be guided away from her, her fingers gripping his wrist.

Something was about to happen and then... it didn't. And he guesses that's a good thing but he feels hollow when Skye splays her hand over his chest and pushes him away gently. She looks around, checking if someone has witnessed their little... what's the word? Dalliance, Coulson wants to say. That word tastes well. But is it the word? They had moment, and then it's gone.

"Come on, let me take you to your room," Skye says.

 

+

 

_In the morning you won't remember what happens next._

_You won't remember the softness of Skye's arm around yours as she leads you upstairs and through the hallways, fishing your room card key out of your pocket._

_You won't remember there's a bit more kissing, for a couple of minutes, there, until Skye laughs and tells you "bed, now" with her mouth full of you and the aftertaste of champagne. You won't remember her fumbling with your jacket and pants and against your clumsy, meddling fingers._

_You will think you were left alone, because you won't remember Skye slipping into bed with you, taking up the other side, taking up so little space as if to not bother you. You will think you've slept alone, like always, like you've done for years._

 

+

 

His head is an underwater sound, before the pain kicks in, the hangover is a pillow, a thick glass wall between him and reality. It feels like it's happening to someone else, the hot mouth against the back of his neck, the gentle fingers wrapped around his cock, a warmth like he hasn't felt in years. The fog in his head separates him from the reality of who is in bed with him, who is touching him.

But his mouth, of its own accord, knows better:

" _Skye_ ," he moans.

She moans back something that could be his name into his ear, or some words of encouragement, Coulson is not sure.

He can see the sun is up but just barely. Depite that Skye says "I was wondering when you were going to wake up."

She doesn't sound that much alert herself, but her voice is even lower than usually. Coulson presses back against that voice, more than the kisses that keep happening – his neck, the top of his shoulder, his earlobe.

"Skye... no."

"But..."

"Not you."

She freezes.

"Wow," she says, turning away from him.

Her fingertips brush against his hipbone as she draws his hand away and Coulson wants to cry. Why has she stopped touching him? Right, because he told her.

"Just _wow_ , Coulson," she mutters as she sits up in bed. "Charming."

He presses his face to the pillow for a moment, hoping that if he goes back to being uncoscious everything will sort itself out, maybe he wouldn't have said such a horrible thing. But that wouldn't work. He can't run away from this.

He opens his eyes: Skye still has her head turned to him, hugging her legs and shaking her head slightly. 

He takes a better look at her. Something is off. Hair a mess. That's not it. Make-up smudged. That's not it. She's wearing his shirt.

 _Fuck_.

"We didn't–?" he asks, suddenly terrified of _either_ answer.

"What if we did?" Skye throws back at him, defiant.

What if – but that'd be an impossibility. He _can't_ have done that. Not to Skye. Just because his friend got married for a second time and he hasn't touched anyone in years and he was depressed. Ill-adviced sex with a subordinate.

And the vague, selfish idea that if he ever had sex with Skye he'd want to remember. How he couldn't stand her thinking that the only reason he would want her is because he was drunk.

Skye shakes her head. "It's okay, we didn't."

Her features soften, catching the terrified look on his face. It's not what she thinks. She touches his arm.

"It's okay. It's not your fault. I shouldn't have thought that you could..." she trails off. "Don't sweat it. You were drunk and lonely. It had nothing to do with me."

She turns around again, like she can't stand to see his face.

Coulson sits up, reaching his hand to her back. She doesn't reject him. Her skin is soft and smooth and Coulson forgets he's supposed to be explaining himself. He runs his fingers across the top of her shoulders, pressing the heel of his hand into them, seeking to comfort her, or make her believe his next words are honest.

"Skye... Of course I'm lonely," he tells her. "But of course it has a lot to do with you."

She looks at him over her shoulder, confused. Coulson guesses he hasn't explained it that way, or very well.

"What did you mean when you said _not you_?" she asks.

"I mean I couldn't bear the thought of you hating me."

She frowns. "Why would I hate you?"

He touches her knee. "You might have thought I was taking advantage of you."

"How?"

Coulson can't believe she hasn't thought about these things.

He looks around. "Alcohol. A wedding. I'm your boss. And I'm almost twice y–?"

Skye snorts.

"You're so full of shit, Coulson."

"Maybe I am."

"You told me it mattered to you, what I wanted."

He nods, dumbly.

Skye's gaze changes, becomes sharper, decisive. She wraps her fingers around his neck and tugs him against her, pressing her mouth to his. Coulson has a flash of memory from last night, like this has happened before, but he can't quite tell when.

Skye breaks the kiss before Coulson can get at the memory.

"I want you," she says, challenge in her eyes. "If that matters to you."

She kisses him again without waiting for an answer. Coulson shivers. If kissing Skye feels this good, he can only imagine what it would feel like... And she says she wants him. But that can't be right.

He grabs her arm and pushes her away gently.

"But how can you want me?" he asks urgently. "A middle-aged washout – I'm not even _complete_."

She narrows her eyes at him, pushing his right shoulder gently with her palm, until he lies back against the pillow. She rolls onto her side until they are face to face. Skye's face has always been too much to bear, but this close it's almost painful to look at. He's still a bit drunk and a bit sad and sentimental, but that doesn't mean hers is not the most beautiful face he's ever seen.

She runs her fingers across the inside of his left elbow, softly caressing the soft skin.

"How can you – do you really think I would ever see you that way?" she asks in a low voice.

"I have a hard time believing you could _see me_."

"You're more confident than this."

"I used to be," he says, the breathing stopped for a moment when Skye slips her hand under his boxers again. "I've forgotten."

"Let me remind you."

She lies on her side, pressed against Coulson to get a better access.

He's really glad he's lying down for this, because as soon as Skye starts stroking him (carefully at first, trying to find a sense of familiarity, then learning quickly, what he likes) his bones turn to liquid. He didn't remember there was such a big difference, between doing this himself or having a lover do it. He has probably been repressing the memory of it, because he would have felt twice as lonely during these past years, had he remembered how this feels like. The fact that Skye is here with him probably helps. Or in this case _doesn't_.

She kisses his face while she picks up the pace, rubbing her thumb across the tip of his cock every time her hand goes up. Coulson feels he's unable to concentrate on the two things; Skye's mouth, pressed tenderly to his cheek, his eyebrow, and Skye's hand, pumping him mercilessly now.

"You're a good guy," she mutters against his ear, obviously in control here. "You deserve good things. I want to give you good things – make you feel good."

"Ng – _Skye_."

"Trust me," she says, chuckling slightly, using her _nails_ oh god.

"I trust you," Coulson blurts out without realizing.

"And maybe if you are a good boy you'll get a nice little wedding with the bride in a blue dress someday."

"You're going too fast."

"I'm not promising anything, just you know –"

"No, _you're going too fast_."

"It's okay, let me do this."

She presses her open-palmed hand against the length of his shaft. Coulson starts thrashing slightly, his hips shaking of his own accord. Skye drops her head to bit at the soft skin over his ribcage, right as he starts coming all over her hand.

"Was that okay?" Skye smiles at him. "I might be a bit rusty."

" _Jesus_."

"I'll take that as a yes."

She kicks the dirty sheets off the bed, a problem for room service – Coulson should feel ashamed but right now all he feels is the soft cotton of contentment, couldn't care less about the mundane and the proper – and he is gloriously and fully naked in front of Skye.

"This is a good look," she says.

She goes into the bathroom and the next moment she's throwing a towel at him. He sits up and cleans himself as best as he can. Skye sits next to him, watching his face carefully.

"I'd like to..." he starts. But what can he say? That he's like to– _Return the favor_? Coulson doesn't want to use that expression. This is not just sex for him, he doesn't want to sound like that. He loves her and wants to date her and yeah possibly marry her while she wears a blue dress someday. The dress doesn't have to be blue. He's okay with whatever. But mainly he doesn't want to feel like this is just about Skye trying to fulfill some fantasy of his. "Do that for you?"

Skye wraps her arms around his shoulders. The gesture is bafflingly sweet and honest.

"Some other time," she tells him. "After seeing how you were last night... I just kind of want to do stuff for you."

He looks down. Her arm across his chest. He lifts his arm to touch her wrist gently. This is the part where he should apologize for his behavior, all of it. Including the bits he doesn't remember, probably. 

"Sorry, I wasn't at my most charming yesterday."

Skye surprises him with a loud laugh.

"That's an understament," she tells him.

"Did the rest of the team..."

"Noticed that you were broody and feeling sorry for yourself?" Skye finishes for him, blunt. "Yeah, they did. They love you and worry about you."

The simplicity of that statement is staggering.

"I didn't mean..."

"It's okay," she says. "You're allowed one day off your stoic pose. Anyway the mood May was in you could have set fire to the place and she wouldn't have noticed, so you're off the hook."

He lifts his hand and touches her hair. A mess. Beautiful. She could be a stranger but not this morning.

"I wasn't very charming with you," he tells her.

"I admit it was the first time I was propositioned sex in the middle of a garden. That was interesting."

Coulson covers his face with his arm. He just came in front of Skye and somehow remembering the events of last night is a lot more embarrassing than that.

"Don't get me wrong, I was flattered," she adds. "I wouldn't mind having that offer again."

She kisses his cheek, almost childlishly, like letting him know she doesn't resent him for the spectacle on the garden.

"I feel awful about it," he tells her. Not just the moment against the column, all of it.

Skye kisses his shoulder. She does that a lot. Kiss him. Despite everything. "Let's see if we can make you feel better."

Her hand snakes down his stomach again, scrapping accross his still-sensitive skin.

Coulson lets out a laugh. 

"You have very high expectations of a middle-aged man with hangover," he says.

"I think you can handle my expectations."

He grabs the lapel of his own shirt on her, parting the neck, wanting to see her. Skye gets the idea and starts undoing the buttons. She slips the shirt off her shoulders herself, like she wants to _show_ him. Coulson reaches out, touching the tips of his fingers to the top of her breast. "Now that's unfair," he says, and Skye bits her bottom lip. It's not that he didn't know – he has seen Skye naked before, but in the context of wounds and missions. The context matters.

Coulson drops his head to her collarbone, begins sucking on the taut skin. 

Then she's touching him again, hasn't forgotten, wrapping her hand around him. He winces, still way too sensitive, and Skye makes his movements slow down, to avoid hurting him, and concentrates on caressing the base of his cock. 

"I want – I want –" Coulson mutters.

Skye presses her mouth to the shell of his ear.

" _What do you want_?"

He sighs, like he's giving something up.

"I want you."

"That's the idea, Director."

He groans and Skye twists her fingers.

"Lie down," she says, letting him go.

He does, pressing his cheek to the pillow and looking out at Skye. She lets him look for a bit, while she runs a tender hand across the top of his thigh, the touch not quite sexual (well, they are in bed about to fuck, there's that), more like she's trying to mantain a connection while they look at each other. She seems to like she sees – Coulson is not entirely unfamiliar with the feeling, but he had forgotten it: before he started getting ugly scars and losing limbs he used to be quite proud of his own body, and quite confident his lovers enjoyed it. There was a time when Skye's expression right now wouldn't have seemed that rare.

"Wait a moment," she says, looking around.

She bends over the edge of the bed, looking for something in her purse.

When she comes back to his side she's holding something up to his face.

Coulson looks at the condom.

"Yeah I brought condoms," Skye says definatly. "I've seen the movies. I know what goes on at weddings."

She rolls the condom over his cock easily. 

"It's no longer the wedding," he says, frightened that she might realize and find the whole thing has lost its charm, its reason.

"No, it's not," Skye replies, seriously and looking at him right in the eye. "And we are no longer drunk and I... I'm just doing this because I love you, you know."

Coulson waits for the punchline.

He waits to wake up properly.

Skye taps her fingers against his chest and frowns at whatever face he's making now.

"Why do you look so surprised?" she asks.

"Because it's surprising. Because I thought it was too late."

Her features soften.

" _Too late_? Not even close," she says.

She lines their bodies together and before Coulson can think of stopping her – because it's too soon, because it will always be too much – she sinks into him.

He lets out a surprised _Oh_ because he didn't remember.

Skye smirks at him when she sees his first reaction.

 _We fit_ , he thinks. Well, of course, they always have, from the first day. But this is different – except it's exactly the same. He remembers her talking about puzzle pieces, about them being puzzle pieces; he didn't get it then, he was too raw with pain and distraction. But he gets it now. Like Fury said, being part of something bigger. Being part of him and Skye. It has always been him and Skye. Always a team, always a separate unit from the rest. He's never felt that before.

Skye takes his right hand in hers. She lets Coulson get used to the feeling of her around him before she starts moving.

"You okay?" she asks. Her expression, Coulson swears, is the kindest thing anyone has given him.

He's not okay. 

He hesitates.

He nods bravely.

Skye doesn't buy it.

"Hey, it's fine," she says, scrapping her nails tenderly across his palm and letting his hand go. "I didn't want to pressure you."

"No, no, it's fine," he says. "Come here."

She bends over, changing the angle – _oh oh oh_ – and all her hair falls across Coulson's chest. He reaches up, blindly, to kiss her. His hand slips up her spine, feeling every groove against the pad of his thumb. 

He is still hesitating, wanting to know if they are doing the right thing. 

But Skye looks... _happy_ , and he can't regret that.

She rocks her hips slowly, taking him deeper, Coulson finally getting comfortable under hers as his body gets used to her around him. Her eyes never leave his and that's a bit unnerving, to be honest. But it's good, too, it keeps him focused, grounded.

"We are good for each other, right?" he asks her.

"Yeah, that's the point," Skye replies. "We've always been good for each other."

Is that love? Coulson wonders. Is love the coppery taste in the mouth when he found her bleeding, dying, down a Italian cellar? Skye is his only family. Is that love?

"Is that... we love each other. Right?" he asks her.

Skye runs her hands up his shoulders and the change of angle is _murder_. Hard to have a proper argument about the meaning of love when it feels like Skye has her whole body wrapped around his cock, it doesn't leave much room for being impartial. Then again he's never been impartial when it comes to Skye. Is that love? Do they really love each other? Like in movies and songs.

"Yeah, we do," Skye says. "We want to take care of each other, and we have fun around each other, don't we?"

"I have fun around you," Coulson tells her in a hurry.

Skye raises her eyebrow at the speed, and gives him an amused look. He's never been an impatient suitor before. His hands move up along her legs, wrapping around her waist. He wonders if she feels the touch of his prosthetic hand strange. She's the first lover Coulson has since he's like this. He's never tried this before.

"I'd rather spend time with you than anyone else," Skye goes on.

That touches him. He thinks about Skye at the end of the day, tired from a mission but still sparing time to go over the details with him and lingering afterwards, late-night conversations in the common room. He wonders if anyone had ever preferred his company to anyone else's.

"Me too," he admits – the way he feels invigorated by her presence in the morning meetings. The way they keep having long conversations on the phone when Skye is on a mission.

She takes his hands in hers and pushes them onto the mattress, bending over Coulson until her chest is pressed to him, wanting to talk to him closer.

"For me that's what love means," Skye says, shrugging shyly, not quite meeting his eye for the first time, like the word is too valuable for someone like her to use. "And you feel the same. And you care about what I want."

"Is it enough?" he wonders out loud.

She raises an eyebrow.

"For someone like me? Are you kidding? This is hitting jackpot."

He can't help but smile at that.

Skye draws the line of his lips with her thumb.

"You have a really pretty smile, Director Coulson."

"Phil."

"You have a really pretty smile, Phil," she repeats. "That's how I figured out what I felt."

"Because I have a pretty smile?" he asks.

"Because I wanted to make you smile, or _see you_ smile, it didn't have to be me – I want to see you happy, whatever, that's what I'm trying to say. I want you to be happy, always."

She catches his lips between hers in a delicate kiss. Coulson jerks his hips up without meaning to. She seems to have liked that, because she deepens the kiss.

"I'm happy," he says when she pulls away, unsure if that's what she wants to hear, sure it's what feel like right now, convinced it's a very small thing to offer Skye. "Right now, I'm happy."

"What's so bad about that?" Skye asks.

"Not bad," he tells her. "Just new."

"Oh, right," she leans back a bit, her ass pressed against the top of Coulson's thighs. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

He tries to move a bit more freely – they are not going to exactly break from this – and props himself on one elbow, kissing Skye's neck. He really likes doing that. Kissing her neck. Kissing her. It keeps happening.

"I think we talk too much," she says, burying her fingers into his hair. Coulson sort of disagrees secretely. She's been away all week. He has missed talking to her.

"Yes."

"Which is great but maybe not so much right now," Skye offers.

He moves his hand up to her mouth, thumb sweeping over her upper lip.

"Yeah, maybe not so much right now," he agrees.

They don't talk for a long while after that.

They give each other long, slow kisses like gifts. The world outside is awake – they can hear the little noises on the hallway, doors opening and closing, people leaving and meeting each other. They are more alone for it, inside the room, for the sounds surrounding them. 

He brings his hand between their bodies. Skye lets out a gasp of surprise and kisses him harder, drawing teeth across his bottom lip.

"I want to come with you," Skye asks him, softly, like it's such an illogical request.

Coulson nods and listens to her breathing. This is the part he's good at. If he's still good at it. After so long. He always could do this – listening to another person's rythms in bed. And he has always been able to read Skye, she's always been familiar, even right now, this close, with the thin film of sweat forming on her forehead as she concentrates on working with Coulson, fitting around him, keeping the pace together. She looks exactly like when she is trying to solve a computing problem, which only makes Coulson feel like he loves her even more desperatedly and has to hide an ianppropriate smile at her efforts.

But she gets what she wants in the end.

Coulson is only too happy to make sure she does.

When she comes her whole body _vibrates_ against him and Coulson understands exactly how she feels the world.

She collapses on top of him with a tiny sigh, pressing her nose against his cheek. He rides his own orgasm off lifting his hand from Skye's back to her hair, concentrating on the feeling of it tangled around his fingers, soothing.

"Okay?" Skye asks again, when she raises her head to look in his eyes, resting her hands on his shoulders and pulling out.

Coulson nods, although he feels the lack of that connection between them acutely for a moment and he's a bit sad everything has finished already.

She disappears into the bathroom a moment and Coulson imagines he dozes off for a while, rolling on Skye's side, woken again by her warm body against his back, this time on the other side of the bed.

And this time he turns around immediately, unable to resist kissing her once more, their noses touching with terrible tenderness.

"It's still early," Skye says. "We can get some more sleep."

He mutters an agreement against her collarbone. He's thinking about a Bill Withers song – Skye does that to him, he's thinking about love songs and French movies and cooking food for him and the kind of stupid plans he had as a kid.

But he's remembering that song and looking at Skye and – 

"Promise me something," he tells her.

Skye looks at him very seriously. 

"Yeah, anything," she says simply.

He believes her. She would promise him _anything_.

Coulson touches her cheek.

"Promise me I won't get in your way."

She holds his face in her hand as well, grabbing his chin gently between thumb and index – she does that when she kisses, he has noticed and he begins to unravel last night, to remember the kisses against the door.

"I promise," she says, kissing him.

He feels sore all over – between the hangover and the unexpected effort of sex, he suddenly feels very raw and ready to just fall into uncosciousness. 

"Now let me sleep," Skye says, rolling on her left side and grabbing Coulson's arm, wrapping it around her middle.

Coulson hesitates – where do arms, legs go? How do you sleep with another human being besides you, pressed to you? He has forgotten. But Skye seems to know what she is doing.

 

\+ 

 

_A beautiful girl is sleeping in your arms._

_You have the room until the afternoon and bless May for that. Bless May and Andrew for many things._

_For a beautiful girl sleeping in your arms._

_You are exhausted but can't sleep._

_If you do, she might be gone._

_But Skye has your fingers and hers tightly laced together and pressed against her chest._

_Wedding are dangerous things._

_You might end up here._

_This impossiblity._

 

+

 

"I feel a bit guilty," she says.

The sun is in her eyes – the sun has been in her eyes all day, here everything is sun and perfection – and that might be better, since she doesn't have to see the face Drew is making right now. She does get to hear the little frustrated noise.

"We've been through this, Melinda. You need to learn how to let go."

"But–"

He walks in front of the sunlight and now she can see his face. It's kind and a little bit amused.

"They'll be fine. Phil will make sure of it," he says. May raises an eyebrow. "Fine, _Skye_ will make sure of it."

He offers her the drink he's been holding. They are off season and even though this is a pretty successful hotel the beach feels strangely quiet right now. There are other peple here but it's like they don't matter.

But the people back at home, they are very present for May right now.

She feels bad for Phil, he had looked depressed during the whole wedding. May thinks he needs to get laid, but try telling _that_ to him.

"I feel like I'm abandoning them," May says.

Andrew sits by her side, touching her arm for a moment before settling down in his beach chair.

"You'll be back in two weeks," he says, sounding so reasonable. It's one of those things about him – it can make you crazy. He's always so reasonable.

"It's not that easy," she replies, the defenses not entirely down right now. It's not that easy. Fortunately Drew knows that too, it was always part of the deal.

"I know," he tells her.

"Don't psychoanalyze me," she warn him, in her best I-know-three-dozen-ways-to-kill you voice, but he has never been impressed by that. The only man she knows who has never been impressed with that.

"I'm afraid it's part of the deal," he says, turning on his side and reaching out to kiss her.

May kisses back.

The sun is no longer in her eyes – instead it's everywhere inside her body.


End file.
